


God, Eames, Your Mouth

by Siyah_Kedi



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siyah_Kedi/pseuds/Siyah_Kedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames has an oral fixation, and Arthur has a fixation on Eames’ oral activities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God, Eames, Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve read an obscene amount of fanfic in the last few weeks, but since my car gave out and I can no longer make it to the library, I’m slowly falling behind on my collection. Either way, I keep seeing a few (read, _dozens_ ) of the same things pop up over and over. This is based on how many times, throughout various fanfics by various authors, Arthur has said, “God, Eames, your fucking mouth!”

_But I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you.  
You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha.  
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,  
Do you have to let it linger?  
 **Cranberries – Linger**_  
  
-o0o-

Eames came back from his latest solo job with a new and not-interesting-at-all tic. If there was something nearby that fit into his mouth, that’s exactly where it ended up.

Arthur started out by trying to ignore him, when it was just small things like candies or tooth picks. The first time Eames stuck a pen into his mouth, Arthur jerked in his seat and flushed, hastily averting his eyes. He wasn’t quite fast enough, however, and he’d had to spend the entire rest of the meeting picturing Eames’ plush, indecent lips wrapped around the end of that pen.

It almost made him sweat, thinking about what it might feel like to have those lips wrapped around parts of his anatomy.

Eames, to Arthur’s immense and undying annoyance, didn’t even seem to notice what he was doing, much less the effect it was having on his coworkers. And _everyone_ on the job was affected. Their architect, Billy, rolled his eyes every time Eames even picked something up. Connie, the extractor, seemed on the verge of saying something, and visibly held herself back each time. Arthur was slowly going insane. It bypassed Eames like a cool breeze, not even ruffling his hair.

“The mark’s sister will be go-go-” Arthur stuttered to a halt when Eames shoved the pen back into his mouth, chewing on the cap and occasionally sucking on it if the caving in of his cheeks were any indication. Arthur’s mouth went dry, and he fixed his eyes on the ceiling. _Unprofessional,_ he told himself. _Eames is a_ coworker _and it’s unprofessional._ “Going to her weekly therapy appointment at four,” he finished, not taking his eyes off the swirls and whorls painted onto the ceiling of their hotel room.

“Alright, Arthur?”

And while Arthur had almost super-human control over his body, to the point that he’d gained a reputation for being a robot while working with Cobb, he absolutely could _not_ stop the blush that spread across his cheeks because fucking _hell,_ Eames had spoken around the pen. Billy sighed, and Connie’s mouth was literally twitching with the words she wasn’t saying. Arthur didn’t know how much Billy knew or guessed at this point, but he was aware that Connie knew about his peculiar predicament. He appreciated her self-censorship, because she was a good extractor and it didn’t look good on his resume when he shot people.

“Fine,” Arthur said, still resolutely looking anywhere but at Eames. “You’ll be able to tail her to and from her therapist, right?” It didn’t even need to be asked, but maybe Eames could be prompted to remove the pen from his mouth if he was distracted.

As hoped, when Arthur glanced at him he’d taken it out and was tapping it on the legal pad he kept for note-taking. _Shit,_ Arthur thought, because the cap had _bite marks_ on it.

“And I should even be able to get into the room itself,” Eames taunted, raising a condescending eyebrow. “At least long enough to plant some cameras so I can get an angle on how she sits and walks. Good enough?”

The pen went back in, shuffling around a little bit as Eames tried to find a comfortable place for it to sit. Arthur cleared his throat, shuffled in his seat as he tried to hide his burgeoning erection, and nodded, before Connie took pity on him and took over the meeting from that point.

0

In the three and a half weeks between that job and the next one he ran into Eames on, Arthur jerked off twice a day to the memories of Eames chewing on the pen. He’d never been so horny or _frustrated_ in his life.

That was why, when Eames came into the first team-gathering/meet-and-greet with an oversized sharpie marker in his mouth, Arthur fled the meeting as soon as he could and found the nearest bar. It took him less than an hour to get thoroughly trashed, and he took the first person who asked back to his hotel room with him.

The next morning, hung over and sexed-out, he dragged himself into the warehouse they’d rented out at six thirty, sucking on a huge cup of coffee like – well, no, not like how he wanted to suck on Eames’s lips and neck and dick, he told himself, trying and failing to get the visuals out of his head. Sucking on it like it was his life-line, he corrected mentally, and made an undignified stagger as he leaned too hard on the door and it swung out from under him.

“Arthur?”

“God, could my life get any worse?” Arthur pulled away from his coffee to beg leniency from the ceiling. His head was throbbing, his ass was throbbing, and he couldn’t remember much about the man he’d brought back from the bar beyond ‘tall, blond, and muscular’ – which was a fairly accurate description, in broad strokes, of the man in front of him now.

Eames yanked the marker out of his mouth, lifting an eyebrow at Arthur’s less-than-thrilled greeting. “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine. Bad night?”

Arthur shuffled over to his desk and flung himself into his chair, remembering at the last second – IE, as his back end was making contact with the paper-thin cushion – that this was a bad idea. He winced, flinched, and swore violently as pain rocketed up his spine.

“Arthur?” Eames asked again, looking genuinely concerned. “This is totally out of character. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Eames,” Arthur said, struggling for volume. His own voice was thunderous in his ears, but he knew he wasn’t speaking above a whisper. “Just … shut up please. I haven’t had enough caffeine for this.” He shifted gingerly, berating himself for acting like a fool on the job. Eames’ assessment was right; he was acting totally out of character, but if anything the forger was to blame for it. If only he’d kept those damn pens out of his damn mouth…

He drew some of the files towards him and started scanning them for relevant information. Absorbed as he was in his work, he didn’t notice anything around him until he went for his coffee and found it ice cold. He made a disgusted face, then turned fully and noticed that at some point, another cup – steam curling through the lid, clearly hot and fresh – had been placed within reach but out of the way, along with two little white pills. Arthur blinked, and glanced around; Eames was hard at work at his own station, seemingly oblivious to the results of his gift. Because it had to have been him; none of the others were in yet, and Arthur sure as hell hadn’t gone back to 7-Eleven and gotten himself more coffee. He took a sip, startled and delighted to realise it was just the way he normally made it. Where or when Eames had figured it out, he had no idea, but the fresh insurgence of caffeine was doing wonders for his mood. He took the aspirin, too, and tried not to shift his weight too obviously when he spun his chair around.

“Eames,” he said, getting the other man’s attention. “Thank you.”

Eames rewarded him with a bright flash of white teeth and a wave before he turned back to his work. Arthur spun back around, grinned at his coffee – since there was no one to see him making a fool of himself – and dove back in.

Sometime after nine, when the rest of the team dragged themselves in, Arthur’s phone rang. His personal phone, not his work phone. Scowling at the unfamiliar number, he answered it cautiously.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi. Arthur, right? This is Brian. We met last night at the bar.”

Arthur felt his face turn white and then scarlet. “Hi,” he said, wondering what one was supposed to say when one’s one-night stand called unexpectedly the next morning.

“Where are you?”

_Excuse me?_ “Work. What’s up?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of the team not even bothering to hide the fact that they were eavesdropping. Eames had actually taken the pen out of his mouth and swiveled around in his chair, leaning forward to hear him better.

“On a Saturday?” Brian laughed, and it was a free and easy sound. Arthur was beginning to remember why he’d taken him back to his hotel. “Well, anyway, I was wondering if you’d be free for dinner tonight.”

Arthur blinked, shocked. “Dinner?”

“I realise you’re some sort of repressed workaholic,” Brian started, and Arthur scoffed.

“I am neither repressed nor a workaholic,” he disagreed, but his lips were trying to smile and he barely held onto his expression, mindful of the incredulous stares he was getting from the rest of his co-workers.

In the background, Eames audibly scoffed at him. “You are so, Arthur, don’t deny it,” he whispered, loud enough to be heard. Arthur waved a hand at him, listening to Brian laugh again.

“Anyway, dinner, it’s what normal people do, usually sometime around six in the evening. My treat, if you’ll just come out with me.”

“I can,” Arthur started to say, intending to finish with ‘pay my own way’ but he changed his mind halfway through the sentence. “Manage that,” he said instead. “Six? Where should I meet you?”

“Yard House, it’s just down the street from your hotel.”

“Sounds good.”

Brian’s voice was almost a purr. “Mm. I’ll see you tonight, then.” He hung up without saying goodbye, leaving Arthur flushed and embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to leave the room before picking up his phone. When he turned around, he was greeted with three sets of identical, disbelieving stares.

“Did you just make a _date?_ ” Billy sounded incredulous. “You _date?_ ”

Connie hit him upside the back of the head. “He’s only human, Bill, leave him alone. He has needs just like anyone else.”

Arthur tried desperately to get his features under control. Connie announcing the he had _needs_ right in front of Eames – who was currently the one _causing_ those needs – was definitely a low point in his day.

“No, really,” Billy continued, turning back to his models. “I thought he just sort of…folded himself up in a drawer at night when he was done working.”

Eames laughed at that, turning his attention to the architect, and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief because it meant he was no longer staring at Arthur like he was something to be dissected. The rest of the day was, blessedly normal. Including the date, despite the fact that he was pretty sure he saw Eames at the restaurant. They went back to Arthur’s hotel, and he didn’t feel like he was being followed, but Eames was a master of his craft for a reason.

The next morning, Arthur’s coffee was sitting on the edge of his desk waiting for him, and Arthur had the sudden, fierce idea that Eames had either installed cameras around him, or was in fact tailing him, because it wasn’t until he’d actually gotten into the warehouse that he realised he’d forgotten to stop for coffee that morning.

Then it turned out he didn’t need to, because Eames had already brought him some. The forger himself was nowhere to be found; just the coffee. Arthur ripped off a post-it, scrawled _Thank you,_ across it, and stuck it to Eames’ desk.

Arthur got no work done that day because Eames ambled back in sometime later with a lollipop sticking out of his mouth.

0

It was nearly three months later when he finally worked with Eames again. Connie was still extracting for them, but Ariadne had replaced Billy since they were in Paris for the duration. Paris in the _summer,_ unfortunately, and Arthur – who’d switched to iced coffees – didn’t even think about the ramifications of this until Eames sat down in their office with an ice cream cone.

“You,” Arthur said, but his mouth was dry and his pants were tight and he couldn’t get the words past the block in his throat. With supreme effort, he wrenched his eyes away from the sight of Eames delicately licking around the cone, sliding his tongue up to the tip of the ice cream, holding it delicately while he tried to keep it from melting all over him…

Arthur stared at the wall, trying not to imagine what it would feel like on him.

A few minutes later, Eames bit into the cone loudly and Arthur figured it was safe to turn around until he did so and realised Eames had wrapped those gorgeous lips of his around the cone and was sucking the last of the ice cream out of the bottom of it. A helpless whine escaped his throat, but before it could get Eames’ attention, he’d flung himself out of the chair and bolted from the room. “Please excuse me a moment,” he blurted out, practically running.

Arthur had one fully productive day after that, and then Eames began making a habit of bringing ice cream in with him, taking his time enjoying it – eyes closed, tongue flicking out, lips closing around the tip of the ice cream, mouth sealed over the cone as his cheeks hollowed out with the suction –

Arthur spent more time in the bathroom jerking off during that job than he ever had on every other job _combined._ He almost regretted that he’d left Brian behind in America.

It got to the point where Connie had actually pulled him aside and asked if he was able to do the job.

“Arthur, I’ve been working with you for a long time, and everyone knows what you and Cobb accomplished together. I know I’m not Cobb, but you’re really starting to worry me. Ariadne came to me the other day and said she’s never seen you so unsettled. Do you need some time off? We can handle a day or two without you,” she added, compassion colouring her voice.

Arthur scrubbed at his face, aware that Eames’ habits were impacting Arthur’s work but not so much that other people were noticing – which made him jerk and swear under his breath, because Eames was far from unobservant, and if _Ariadne_ had noticed something was off, God! It was a guarantee that Eames had noticed. “Yeah,” he said absently. “Maybe just a day.”

“Take two,” Connie said, patting him on the shoulder. “Go back home. To your hotel. Wherever you’re resting your rump while you’re here, just take a load off.”

“Got it.” Ashamed and embarrassed, Arthur went back to his desk and began gathering his papers, stacking them neatly and for once not caring about the order. As long as they were there, he could reorganise them later.

Eames’ hip came into his field of vision before anything else registered, and Arthur made an undignified noise as he jerked away, glancing up into Eames’ face. “Yes?”

“Where are you going? Skiving off your work today?”

“What does that even mean?”

Eames rolled his eyes and took the pen out of his mouth. Arthur followed it with his eyes, then jerked his gaze back up to Eames’ face. It was _fucking stupid_ to be jealous of a _writing utensil._ In a perfect replica of Arthur’s slightly North-Eastern American accent, Eames said, “Are you playing hooky today?”

Arthur sighed, shoving his papers into his messenger bag. “No, I’m not playing hooky,” he said. “Connie told me to take a few days and get my head back on straight.” And there was no _way_ he was admitting – not even under threats of torture or death – that Eames was the cause of his sudden inability to work.

“Hm. Yeah, you do that,” Eames said, and he was suddenly distracted, the pen back in his mouth. Arthur manfully resisted the urge to tear it away from his lips and claim them for his own, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left the warehouse at something just short of a jog.

He spent two days lying in bed and trying to talk himself out of this insane fascination with Eames’ oral fixation, and forgot to gel his hair back when he went back on the third day. A cup of iced coffee was resting on the edge of his desk, and he sank into his chair as he took a long, grateful pull on it. “Mm,” he said. “Thank you, Eames.”

“Urk?”

“Eames?”

Worried suddenly, he turned around and saw Eames staring at him like he’d come in wearing sweat pants and a tee shirt. Since that had been what he was wearing around his apartment on his unexpected weekend, he glanced down at himself to make sure he’d remembered to put the suit back on after his shower that morning. Then his hair fell into his face, and he realised his mistake.

“You look…” Eames began, and his face changed too rapidly for Arthur to keep track of all the emotions suddenly visible before he finished with, “different.”

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him, and bit back on his first response, which was an entirely inappropriate “And you’re not sucking on anything today, we’re even.” He ended up letting the moment go too long and just said nothing.

“I like it,” Eames said simply, seeming to get his mind back from wherever he’d lost it. Eames turned back to his work, but Arthur sat staring at him for a long moment after, trying to come to terms with Eames saying something _positive_ about him.

“Arthur! What have you done to your hair?” Ariadne made a beeline for him from across the room, sinking her fingers into his scalp and fluffing his hair. “It looks so good like this! You should leave it down more often.”

Since Arthur had a weakness for people playing with his hair, and an inappropriate reaction to his architect was far below the level of merely ‘unprofessional’, Arthur pulled away sharply, pushing his hair back with his hands and scooted his legs under his desk.

“I ran out of gel,” he lied. “And didn’t have time to get some this morning.”

“Connie doesn’t even ask that we show up until nine,” Ariadne pointed out.

“Yes, but I’ve got two days of missed work to catch up on.”

“You’re always here, Arthur, it’s no wonder she made you take a break. I’d be going mental if I was here all day, too. You really ought to get out more.”

“His booty call is back in San Francisco,” Eames butted in, and he was scowling when Arthur glanced up at him.

Arthur and Ariadne spoke over each other. “What?”

“Excuse me?”

Eames grinned at Ariadne. “Big blond jock type,” he said. “Brian, wasn’t it darling?”

“What?” Ariadne said. “What? Arthur, you’re _gay?_ Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I just finding out now?”

Fielding Ariadne’s barrage of questions distracted Arthur from the forger long enough for the other man to collect something from the freezer without being noticed. When he heard the sound of tearing paper, he glanced up and wished he hadn’t.

Eames had a chocolate ice cream bar - _Fudgsicle,_ his suddenly bloodless brain informed him. And he was _deep-throating_ it.

Arthur made an involuntary noise that attracted Ariadne’s attention. “Arthur, you’re not even listening to me now,” she complained, and Arthur was distantly aware of her looking searchingly at him before following his line of sight. “Oh,” she said. “ _Oh._ ” And after that, she left him alone. With an almost audible sucking noise, Arthur tore his eyes away from the sight of Eames shoving the ice cream bar down his throat.

He looked at his papers without seeing them until Ariadne called a halt for lunch and dragged him away. They were halfway to the café he favoured before he realised where they were. “Ariadne, what?”

“I know your secret,” Ariadne confided. “You are head over heels in love with Eames, aren’t you?”

Arthur actually _tripped over his own feet._ “What?”

Ariadne steadied him before he could fall, and judging by the smirk on her face was only barely containing herself from cackling out loud like the evil witch she actually was. “Arthur and Eames, sitting in a tree. S-N-O-G-G-I-N-G,” she caroled, grinning.

“What does that even mean?” Arthur asked, not even bothering to deny it at this point. “And it’s more like… head over heels in lust. I mean, have you _seen_ some of the things he puts in his mouth?”

Ariadne looked thrilled. “You notice!”

“How could I _not?_ He’s not exactly subtle about it! And it’s distracting.”

She waved it off. “Snogging, it’s slang for kissing. My ex-boyfriend was from London, and he always said it, so I asked Eames.”

“Why not just ask your boyfriend?”

“Ex. Anyway, so you saw him blowing that fudge bar this morning, right?”

Arthur groaned.

Ariadne, the heartless beast, laughed.

0

“Can you pass me that pen, darling?”

Arthur scowled at him. “Only if I can get it back saliva-free,” he said, and then wanted to sink into a hole and die.

Eames lifted an eyebrow. “Only if what? I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ you don’t,” Arthur snarled, and threw the pen at him. _I need to get laid,_ he thought as the entire exchange replayed through his head. _This is insane._ “I’m going out,” he said, and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.

“Leaving early, Arthur?” Ariadne, the little minx, had the gall to smirk at him. “Got a hot date?”

“Not yet.” Arthur slammed the door behind him, reveling in the childish satisfaction it gave him. Moments later, his phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Ariadne.

_**Since I know how much you want in his pants, I’ll soften him up for you while you’re gone. Maybe play up the jealousy aspect a little.** _

Arthur debated on the way out to his car, and then texted back: **_What jealousy aspect?_**

**_Duh. The part where you throw something at him and then storm out of the office to find someone ELSE. Maybe try and figure out if he wants you to be throwing your OTHER pen at him instead of random strangers you get it?_ **

“Oh my god, Ariadne!” Scandalised, Arthur didn’t even bother replying to that one.

Eames wasn’t in their office the next morning. Arthur didn’t know whether to be relieved or unhappy; he had no idea how Ariadne’s little talk with him had gone, after all. He’d ended up going back to his apartment and getting drunk on his own, scrapping his own plans for barhopping. He was slightly hung-over, but at least he could sit down without announcing what he’d spent his night doing. The problem with getting there before Eames was he’d somehow fallen into the habit of allowing the other man to fetch his coffee for him, and hadn’t stopped for his own. Since the instant stuff they had on hand was pig swill, he set the electric kettle on with water for Eames to make his tea, and debated on whether or not to go and find a café. When he opened the fridge and saw Eames’ fudge bars, he snatched one on a whim.

After all, something Eames was so thoroughly _enjoying_ couldn’t exactly be all that bad, could it? He ripped it open and tentatively licked at it before deciding it was, in fact, quite good.

A choked off noise alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone, and he glanced up to see Eames standing in the doorway, looking like he’d just been punched in the gut. Arthur slid the fudge bar out of his mouth, licked the excess chocolate off his lips, and tried to ignore the way Eames was staring at him as he did it.

“There’s water on for you,” he said.

“Your hair’s still down,” Eames said, moving past him to start in on his tea.

“So it is,” Arthur said. He hadn’t forgotten the look Eames had given him the first time he wore it down, or the fact that he’d admitted he liked it. Not that that had anything to do with his decision. Eames clanked the mug on the counter, and then turned around. Arthur braced for a confrontation.

“I realised last night that I owe you an apology,” he said, instead. “And this morning just… well, cemented it.”

“What?”

“Don’t say what, say pardon.”

Arthur fought his first inclination to wrinkle his nose, and imitated Eames’ accent. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “You’re changing your own subject.”

“Hm, well, yes. I suppose I am. Well, Ariadne delightfully informed me that I am causing you to lose your mind, which I would like to inform _you_ was not my intention.”

“I am completely lost,” Arthur admitted. “What are you trying to say?”

In lieu of an answer, Eames lifted Arthur’s wrist and licked the stray trickle of chocolate that had slid down from the rapidly melting fudge bar. “I’m trying to say that I’ve been trying to seduce you for about six months now, and it’s not working. And I’m sorry for going about it like that because seeing you licking that ice lolli was nearly the death of me. So I’m sorry for putting you through that, and driving you into the arms of a thug like Brian, and making you throw things at me.” In the back of his mind, Arthur realised that Eames had probably catalogued every look and sigh and trip to the bathroom Arthur had made while he was chewing and sucking and licking his way through a pack of biros. And then proving that Eames was entirely _too_ observant, he slid one hand through Arthur’s loose hair and tugged gently before closing his mouth over Arthur’s.

They were both flushed and panting by the time he pulled away. Arthur abandoned the ice cream to the sink, wrapped his hands around Eames’ neck and leaned back in. “God, Eames, your _fucking_ mouth,” he breathed and reignited their kiss.


End file.
